Cafe Cecilos
by imsuper-who-locked
Summary: One-shot. Coffeeshop AU. Cecil wanders past a new cafe and finds a delightful surprise inside. Cecilos.


Cecil hurried past the obnoxiously-colored café, his temper steaming. He had been on his way to the radio station for his next shift when that damn Steve Carlsburg had literally run into him—that man just never failed to be rude! The fact that he was being chased by some sort of rabid octopus didn't matter. Such instances of terror were to be _expected _in an extravagant place like Night Vale. Did he, Cecil, pay attention to where he was going even when chased by beasts of any rabid nature? Of course he did. It was the polite thing to do.

He stalked a few paces more before realizing he had never, in fact, seen that particular café before in his life. Cecil paused and turned back to examine it. It was very obnoxiously-colored, true, but the architecture was rather revolutionary. He could see the outlines of people drinking coffees and eating mysteriously-flavored crescent rolls in the two spires that rose magnificently from the roof. Cecil glanced at his watch and saw that he had a bit more time than he thought. He slipped into the doors of the café without a second thought.

The atmosphere was somewhere between disconcerting and pleasurable. The walls flowed like volcanic lava, basking the faces of everyone inside in a queasy blood-orange color. As Cecil glanced around, a curious customer put her hand toward one of the walls and it burst into flame. The customer shook her hand out, annoyed, as Cecil made his way up through the tables to the counter.

The selection seemed to be typical for this sort of place: Black coffee beans fresh from the pits of Tarturus, hooded-figure shaped sugar cookies, caramel cappuccinos, iced bats' blood. Cecil perused the menu for a few moments and then heard a soft voice say, "May I help you?"

Cecil looked up into the most gorgeous face he had ever known.

The barista had the brownest eyes Cecil had ever seen, set perfectly in his heart-shaped face. His skin was luxurious caramel silk, his perfectly manicured hands like elegant spiders, and his hair… oh, dear glow cloud, his hair!

"Excuse me—excuse me… sir, can I _help _you?"

Cecil blinked. Somehow in the course of his thoughts he had leaned across the volcanic-rock counter and had begun to stroke the barista's hair. He jumped back, thoroughly embarrassed. "I am so sorry! Don't mind me! I just—it's a problem I have, a tick. When I see nice hair, I just have to stroke it."

The beautiful man was looking at him strangely. "Are you alright? You're beet-red."

Glancing down at his hands, Cecil saw that he had indeed turned the color of the most hated vegetables on the planet. "I'm fine. It's a condition I have when I get embarrassed. Don't mind me. I'll, um, take, um, the, um, snail-slime frappe."

The barista turned and began preparing the drink. Cecil stepped back and slapped himself lightly on the forehead. Stupid, _stupid! _How could he be so stupid? This guy was obviously new to Night Vale—for one thing, Cecil had never seen him before, and he knew nearly everyone here. For another, this café had appeared overnight, and generally when buildings spontaneously spawned, the employees did as well. He also had an air of constant bewilderment about him. Newcomers and travelers always did. And his first impression of Cecil was a man with a lot of conditions and crazy ticks who couldn't even speak properly. _Stupid!_

"Sir… your drink."

Cecil turned back to the counter, thankful that the tone of his skin had lightened somewhat. He dug in his pockets and brought out a few bills. Before he could slap them down on the counter, the barista smiled. "On the house," he said.

Damn it! His skin darkened immediately. "Oh, no, I couldn't," Cecil began. He glanced up, intending to meet those chocolate eyes stubbornly, and instead found the man's nametag. _Carlos. _This perfect being's name was Carlos.

Carlos gave him a wide smile. "You could. You will." He pushed the drink at Cecil, who could do nothing but take it. For a few moments they met each other's eyes and gazed into them, and Cecil only realized that it had not been moments but minutes when an annoyed customer behind him reached through his stomach with an incorporeal hand and tapped Carlos on the shoulder. Carlos broke the stare, turning his attention to the new patron, as Cecil slunk away.

He floated in a daze to the radio station, all thoughts of Steve Carlsburg blissfully out of his mind. Carlos and his utter perfection filled it. Cecil took a sip of his drink, picturing the lovely hands that had crafted it, the deep and attentive eyes that had watched it being made. Perhaps a strand of that flawless hair had fallen into it.

By the time he reached the station doors his skin had gone back to its normal colorless state and his drink was half-gone. It was as delicious as its maker. Cecil pushed through the doors, mooed at the secretary on duty, Janet, made a quick stop to the restroom to drop off a cat treat for Khoshekh, and finally sat down at his desk, all in a dream-like state. Minutes later he began his broadcast.

"Listeners, I am a bit ashamed of myself this morning. You see, it has been many decades since I have told an intentional lie. I have told many unintentional lies, concerning false reports I've received and things I could not remember doing, but very few intentional lies. I would like to apologize to the person I lied to today and explain why I committed such an awful sin.

"You see, my dear citizens, I was surprised this morning after an awful run-in with Steve Carlsburg—more on him later. I found myself walking past a charming little café, which has the lovely décor of a volcanic explosion. While the outside decoration didn't exactly satisfy my tastes, the atmosphere inside—and especially behind the counter—did.

"What kind of beverages do they have? What type of rotten meat do they serve? What weather plays in this café? These questions you will have to answer for yourself, Night Vale. Café Cecilos has nothing but glowing reviews from me. I merely bring it up as a part of my apology. To the handsome and perfect barista that waited on me this morning, I am very sorry for my dishonesty. You see, I, like several citizens in our beautiful city, suffer from a skin condition. You noticed it this morning. However, I must confess that my skin does not, in fact, turn red when I am embarrassed. That's when it turns a bright yellow.

"My skin turns red when I'm in love."


End file.
